


heat this side facing up

by chargesmayapply



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, F/F, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Light Angst, M/M, No Underage Sex, Not Beta Read, Not Epilogue Compliant, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Out of Character Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Out of Character Tom Riddle, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Weird Plot Shit, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29297646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chargesmayapply/pseuds/chargesmayapply
Summary: Harry shouldn't have used the microwave.It had dark magic surrounding it, and even Hermione couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. But he was watching his favourite show, and the popcorn he had bought last Tuesday was calling his name.And, well, he did get his popcorn. But he also got a loud explosion, and the lights around him blowing out. Sitting next to a microwave, head dizzy and hair standing on end, Harry found himself in the Slytherin common room.Precisely, in 1946.(in other words a tomarry time travel fic that you shouldn't look too close at, because i'm stupid and won't be able to give you a good reason why anything in this fic happens. also no one's underaged in this, cause i'm 19 and that sh*t nasty)(CROSS-POSTED TO WATTPAD)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. six thirty-seven pm

Harry Potter had only been in the Slytherin common room once, back in second year. But there was no mistaking it, no mistaking the green and the silver and the smell of damp walls and cold floors.

He looked around, in a daze, and realised that the room was empty. He allowed himself a second to gather his wits before groaning, bringing himself to his feet. Harry looked down at the shitty microwave that he had found on the side of the road, heat emitting from the vents it had in the sides. He bent down and pressed a button, the door swinging open to show his bag of popcorn inside.

Doubting being found in the Slytherin common room with a microwave and bag of popcorn would go down well with Headmistress McGonagall, Harry shrunk the microwave down to fit in his pocket, and transfigured the popcorn bag into a small paperbag. At least the popcorn tasted good. 

Finally finding the entrance, Harry stepped out of the common room and into the hallway, mindlessly shoving buttery and warm popcorn into his mouth. 

Maybe the microwave was some sort of illegal portkey? Or something, Harry wouldn't know, honestly. Either way, he's going to hand it into McGonagall. He doesn't want any new adventures, not until next year. 

Or the year after that.

It was a bit of walk, and by the time he got out of the dungeons he had finished his popcorn. Licking the kernals and leftover pieces out of between his teeth, Harry rubbed his greasy fingers off on his worn jeans. It had been awhile since the Battle of Howarts, and yet it still felt like yesterday that he died. That the castle had been in ruins. That the air around him had been thick with smoke and misery.

Harry really didn't want to come back so soon, but it seems fate had had enough of his wallowing self-pity. 

Thankful that he had been holding his wand when the Microwave Popcorn Travel fiasco happened, Harry cast a couple spells and charms on himself to try and at least seem semi-presentable. He hadn't showered in a handful of days, and even he could tell he smelt a bit rank. 

His haphazardly transfigured shoes dragged across the floor, fatigue seeming to eat him from the soles up. 

Harry half heartedly wished he had been holding his cup of coffee, even though it had been cold and with not enough sugar.

It was strange being at Howarts again without any students filling the halls.

Harry supposes it's break right now, and only some of the professors and elves would be here in the castle. It was almost unnerving, how the sound of his shoes on the stone echoed throughout the halls. 

Almost.

-

Not a lot of things surprised Harry. 

Not anymore, at least. He hadn't been to Hogwarts in just little under a year, and he barely talked to McGonagall anymore. She still made a habit of owling him the password for the Headmistress office though, whenever she had to change it. just incase.

Yet 'peaches' wasn't working, and neither was 'chocolate fizz'. Standing there like an idiot, glasses pushed up into his hair, and hand gripping his face, Harry tried to remember if he had missed any letters. Went through his catalogue of passwords. Tried to think of a failsafe. He really wasn't in the mood to be standing there like some dolt all because he hadn't been bothered enough to read his mail.

He sighed harshly through his nose, sucking on his teeth. McGonagall is probably going to use this as an excuse to lecture him on why he should get a flatmate, and that he's not looking after himself properly, and that maybe he should come and be a teacher's assistant before he goes and joins the Aurors next year.

She was just looking out for him, but he could really do without it.

Gathering his courage, Harry places his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and combes a hand through his hair, knocking on the wooden door in front of him. The sound echoes around the long hallway with a hollow thud.

He's still sort of looking at his shoes when the door opens, mind busy with the fact that his transfiguration job wasn't the best and the worn leather was starting to slowly turn into soft, patterned fabric. A performative cough rouses him from his observations, Harry's eyebrows shooting up to hide behind his messy fringe at the man in front of him.

"Hello, what are you doing here?" In front of him, dressed in sleeping robes, stood an old man with a greying beard. His eyes weren't unkindly, but he was looking down his nose at Harry with suspicion.

Maybe Harry could pass for seventeen, but that was without him looking like he hadn't slept in a decade. lack of sleep probably made him look twenty-five.

Harry stood there for a couple seconds, jaw working as his brain slowly tried to make sense of the situation.

He knew this man, had seen an older version of him hung in the Headmistress office. Harry knew he was dead, knew he was buried in some graveyard with probably generations of other rich and important wizards.

Armando Dippet.

"Sir?" And then Harry was falling backwards, darkness swallowing him whole. 

-

He probably wasn't out for long, a couple minutes at most. Harry woke up on the floor, a concerned Dippet whispering with a young man. He was dressed in Muggle pajamas, though they were old fashioned. Everyone went to bed early around here, huh?

Noticing everything was blurry, Harry sat up slightly and tried to look around for his glasses. 

He wanted to get a new pair, but he was sort of just hoping Ron or Hermione would get them for him as a birthday gift. The last time he tried to buy a pair in Muggle London, they told him they couldn't tell what sort of lenses he needed from looking at his old glasses. Merlin knew he wasn't going to go into Diagon Alley to get a magic pair, last time he went he got swarmed.

"Young man, are you alright?" Harry blearily looked up at the man dressed in Muggle pajamas and nodded, mouth dry and fingers trembling. For a second there, Harry's not sure what he saw. Whatever it was, it made his stomach drop. 

"My name is Oscar Noël, and I'm the school's nurse. When was the last time you've eaten or slept? Are you suffering from magic exhaustion? Do you know wher-" Harry suddenly sat up then, vomiting popcorn and coffee and Merlin it didn't taste as good coming up then it did going down. 

The nurse looked at him with a pale face and pursed lips, still squatting beside Harry but trying to crab walk away a little.

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Oscar. Let's just get him to the hospital wing before he burps up a lung." Harry didn't much like being levitated, but from the way his gut clenched when he was moved, he probably didn't have much choice. 

Noël kept trying to talk to him, but gave up when Harry didn't answer any of his redundant questions. Okay, so maybe the only thing he's eaten in the past few days was the popcorn. 

And maybe he had only been drinking coffee. Maybe he hadn't been sleeping that well since death started to inhabit his head like a stray cat does with a cozy dumpster. What was Harry supposed to do? Magic himself better? 

Go see a Muggle doctor to talk about magical problems? Talk to Hermione and Ron?

He couldn't. 

So he didn't. Harry stayed at home and ate bread and cooked instant noodles, and couldn't be bothered making something decent to eat. He watched the telly in his shitty Muggle flat, tried to ignore the way his neighbours gave him strange looks (as they tried to act as if they hadn't been complaining to the landlord about how the owls always came to his window). He just didn't have any motivation, anymore.

Not even Ginny, who used to come by to cook him meals and talk to him and try and keep him company, could breathe life into Harry. He just felt so tired all the time. Felt weak. Felt helpless.

"I'm going to lower you onto this bed here now, tell me if you're going to vomit again and I can get a bucket." It was soft, and comfertable, and Harry was staring at the roof because he couldn't look anywhere else. Couldn't look anywhere else without feeling like he was going mad.

He needed to get away. Needed to try and get back to the future, because no way in hell would he stay here.

He could tell they were still talking about him, he could tell that they were trying to figure out how he had snuck into the castle. They didn't trust him, and they didn't know what to do with him. Maybe this was all a dream, Harry thought. Maybe the microwave exploded, and he was currently in a Muggle hospital while they tried to stitch his face up, high on too much anesthesia. McGonagall would have a field trip, with that one.

A thought popped into his head, then, as he tried to calm his stomach with basically just willpower alone.

"Could you, could you perhaps contact Albus Dumbledore for me?"

-

It was shocking, to see his old mentor again. Except Dumbledore wasn't so old now, beard half as short and still showing hints of red and brown. It was later in the night, maybe around ten. He was grateful that Dumbledore had agreed to come all the way here from some sort of investigation he was doing in Ukraine.

"So, tell me what you wanted to talk about." Harry was sitting upright in the hospital bed, half-eaten dinner on a plastic tray to his elbow, newly discovered glasses on his nose. He felt unusually emotional, though he guesses it was to be expected. Harry cleared his throat, and looked away from the wizard sitting in the uncomfortable looking chair beside him.

"My name is Harry James Potter, and I've come from the future." 

Dumbledore didn't make a sound, didn't even ask for Harry to repeat himself. He guesses the professor wasn't going to say anything until Harry explained everything. Right.

"Uh, I'm from the year 1999, and I'm not really sure what I'm doing here."

From then on Harry explained about the microwave, and the popcorn, and how he had gone from his little unit to Slytherin common room. He even went as far as giving the shrunken microwave to Dumbledore, who placed it in a pocket instead of analyzing it. 

Guessing it couldn't hurt too much to tell the old man, he also mentioned how Dumbledore had been a very trusted and close mentor to Harry, back in the future.

Dumbledore, to his credit, sat in silence, and masked his surprise well. 

The only time Harry caught him looking shocked was when harry mentioned that he had watched Dumbledore die, and that he was happy to see him again. Maybe he shouldn't have said that, but it was true. It shouldn't be, for all the things Dumbledore had done. But he was the closest thing that Harry had to a father, besides Hagrid and Sirius. 

Seeing him again made Harry feel like back then. Back when he was sixteen, and didn't know what to do. Back when everything was still sort of okay, and he only had to deal with Voldemort annually, like a chore he had to get over for the year.

When Harry was finally done with explaining as much as he thought was safe, they sat in silence. It seemed that Dumbledore was still going over information that probably wouldn't have made sense an hour earlier.

Harry, with a belly full of food and a heart softened by seeing an old ghost, started to doze. Eyes slipping shut behind finger-smudged lenses.

"Mr Potter, I have a proposition for you."


	2. nine thirty-four am

Tom Riddle sat against the wall his rickety bed was pushed against, a knee drawn up to rest his arm, hand in his hair as he tiredly blinked against the light of the sun. 

It was a sunday, so Tom didn't have work today. Didn't have to worry about looking presentable, or having to keep his facade in place. His stomach grumbled, a bird someplace in a tree started to sing. 

It's too early to do anything important, like going into town or calling a meeting with the Knights. He almost wanted a cigarette, but he wouldn't let himself depend on anything that wasn't necessary.

Deciding that he might as well, Tom ignored his aching bones and got up, stretching until he felt satisfied. 

He wasn't wearing socks, so the walk to the kitchen left his feet cold. He walked over to the bench next to the oven, and proceeded to make tea.

Thinking on what to do on his day off, Tom moved to go over to the little fridge he had, grabbing a carton of milk out. When the kettle started to whistle, he grabbed the little tin that held his tea bags. Usually he awoke earlier then his alarm clock, but he had to stay back at the shop for a little longer then usual last night, and then afterwards went out for a drink with his Muggle neighbour.

To keep up appearances, of course.

He didn't have a hangover, because he didn't drink alcohol last night. He only charmed his water to look like some sort of cheap beer, and his thirty-two year old neightbour wouldn't be able to tell the difference. He had already been drunk by the time Tom had gotten home from work.

Well, either way. Tom might not have had a hangover, but the loud ringing of his Muggle alarm clock still had given him a slight headache. He might have to read up on if there are any spells that would work better, instead.

Finally done making his tea, Tom picked up his mug and walked over to the purple couch in his open loungeroom. He sunk into the worm fabric, taking a sip as he stared tiredly at the radio sat on the table infront of him. Muggle london, with all its disgrace, did have some attributes.

Not many, but some.

-

"Tom, what are we doing here?"

They were leaning up against dirty, damp alleyway walls in some Muggle infested place. His Knights passed a cigarette back and forth while Tom lit a match to his own. He stood there, for minute. 

He supposes it won't do too much trouble, to give them a sliver of the truth.

"We're following a lead." They stand there for what seems like forever, Tom smoking cigarette after cigarette until his lips felt dry and his fingers smelt of nicotine and tobacco. Almost on the verge of calling tonight off (as he has work tomorrow morning), Tom feels something in his lower stomach pull, as something passes through the specialized ward he had set earlier that night.

It's go time.

He drops the remainder of the smouldering cigarette in his fingers, and signals to the group of young men and women to stay behind.

The bar he enters five minutes later is nearly empty, and unevenly lit. Plenty of dark spaces to talk to someone who likes their privacy. Though Tom must have read her wrong, for she was sitting at the bar, smiling up at the barman as he poured her a drink. 

Tom stood there in the doorway for a couple seconds, probably too long to not come off as suspicious. He switches gears quickly and lights a cigarette. He walks off to find a seat.

He supposes that leaves his plan useless. He can't exactly go up to her now and nonchalantly slip her the draught in his pocket, can't exactly take the bag she has in her lap off of her. 

He watches, in his corner as he sits at an empty table with a cigarette between his lips, as she continues to talk to the barman. He flicks his curling hair out of his eyes and sits back, smoke coyling around him. 

What can he do, what can he do... He supposes maybe he could charm her the old fashioned way into going home with him. He's not so unattractive that it wasn't possible. It might even be enjoyable. 

No, no. he has to keep his wits about him. Would he kill her? Would anyone notice? Is it worth it? To finally have that book that he has been tracking down for months and months? He crosses a leg over the other, crinkling his dress pants, shined shoe glinting in the candle light.

He flicks off the ash absent-mindedly onto the floor. Tom doesn't much care for smoking, but he supposes he would have to do something, instead of just sitting here and staring at the back of her dark green sweater.

It was as he was sucking in the smoke from his dying cigarette, eyes fluttering slightly as his chest began to burn and the butt between his fingers started to heat, that he made eye-contact with the barman. A jolt went through him, and it almost makes him cough. Instead he chokes on the smoke in his throat, hiding it well behind dead eyes and a slightly flushed face.

The barman looks away, back down to the woman that had originally been Tom's prey.

This was a mistake, Tom can feel it. 

There was something about how they had locked gazes, something his instincts were trying to warn him about. In the mirror behind the barman, Tom noticed the woman's eyes flickering away from him.

Fuck, did they know?

He pushed the cigarette down into the ashtray in the center of the table, the soft noise of the bar around him suddenly dying and getting taken over by the sound of blood rushing through his ears, by the sound of his beating heart. 

He forced himself to sit there and smoke one more cigarette, making bedroom eyes with a lady perhaps just over a decade older then him, down to his right. She seemed to chuckle and chide him, but played along until Tom had put out his cigarette, nodded at her, and left.

As he apparated back to his little apartment, Tom felt sick. When he laid down to sleep, and forced himself to stay still and breathe in evenly for half an hour til darkness welcomed him, his mind last thought of those green eyes. dark, full of an emotion that Tom couldn't see from so far away, leaving him almost clammy with unfamiliar fear.

His dreams that night were filled with the drip, drip, dripping of a leak in his window. A little puppy running around and falling down and breaking its leg. 

And the way that he had felt eyes on the back of his neck as he had left the bar.

-

Tom was sorting books again in Borgin and Burkes. He didn't really mind it, since it gave him a chance to look to see if there were any he should buy next payday. He had been working here for little under a year, and yet he still sometimes got stuck with meaningless little jobs like these. 

He supposes someone has to do them.

When lunch comes around, he sits out back with Mr Borgin, as Mr Burke was on a trip to Egypt. They talked and ate their sandwhichs for the ten minutes that was their break, joking and laughing while surrounded by dark and ancient magic. Tom didn't mind Borgin too much, though always having to be so nice and charasmatic was so boring.

He didn't mind wearing it though, since Borgin ended up letting Tom take one of the books home to read.

It was a long shift, as there were only two other people besides Borgin, Burke, and Tom working there. About two hours before closing time, Tom worked through his fatigue and annoyance to charm some unsuspecting man out of a taxidermied cat that held the spirit of an evil witch. 

It was a great sell, Borgin clapped him on the back afterwards in glee.

They made sure to place it on a shelf above the front desk, an ornate cage surrounding it, eyes glinting with something sinister. After that it was slow, and Tom gave himself the duty of sweeping the dark wooden floors, as Borgin napped on and off at the counter.

When it was finally time to go home, Tom gently woke Borgin and told him so. The man sneezed into a handkerchief patterned with skulls and patted him tiredly on the back, telling him to lock up as the old man climbed up the stairs to the apartment above. 

Jt almost warmed his heart, to be trusted enough to lock up the shop by himself.

Almost.

Tom did so, and walked home. And if Borgin noticed two missing books instead of one the next day, he didn't say so.

-

A week later, Tom was walking to work when he passed a pet shop. They didn't have many around, but he supposes the owner must have been hopeful. Tom walks in, on a whim

(those can be dangerous),

and notices the lack of animals. A man at the front counter looks up, almost startled at the sound of the bell, and smiles awkwardly at Tom.

"We just opened, so we don't have many pets at the moment. Though we do-" Cut off suddenly by barking, the man looks to his left with a smaller, more tired smile. Tom looks to the cage from where the noise is coming from, and notices a small puppy. He walks further into the shop, almost drawn to the small brown and white thing.

"We do have a puppy."

Tom crouches down in front of the cage, the puppy jumping up and down in excitement as its little tongue lolls out of its mouth. 

Tom reaches a hand to rest on the cage, letting the little fluffy animal sniff loudly at his hand. It's cute, though seeming to be a mutt. It would be lucky to be sold.

It doesn't seem to know that though, as it wags its tail and looks up at him lovingly, shaking with energy. That must be its selling point, because even Tom feels a smile start to take over his face. He doesn't try to stop it.

-

He had gotten paid today, and Tom had wanted to buy the books he had read the other night. They had been interesting, more then he had expected. It would be worthwhile to take them home to study them more thoroughly.

But for some reason, he hadn't. 

Borgin had looked at him strangely as Tom had stared at the books for what seemed like a minute too long, his pouch of money in his hands. In the end he had apologized, waved at Borgin and the new witch who had just walked in to start her shift, and he left.

The sun was sitting low in the sky, his shined but old boots scuffing against the pavement. He was staring at his shoes, hands in pockets and message bag low on his shoulder, when he suddenly looked up.

The pet store.

-

What had he done?

Even though he had been tired, he had risked apparating in an alley to Gringotts to exchange some of his money for Muggle currency. They had looked at him strangely, but he had just smiled and said it was for his landlord. 

He had just made the pet shop before it had closed, the man had seemed shocked to see Tom return. Honestly, so had Tom.

The little mutt had been too expensive for what it was, but Tom had expected that. Half an hour later, he was walking home with a little excited puppy yapping away in a cardboard box. Heavier then expected, but Tom supposes the bag he had been carrying full of puppy food and treats wouldn't have helped either. Just before he had entered the apartment complex, Tom had magically silenced the box, before continuing to carry it up the stairs.

What was he doing? He was a Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was Lord Voldemort. He was a dark wizard. 

Why did he just buy a puppy?

Before letting the puppy out of its (his) box, Tom charmed and warded the apartment to make sure no sound would escape. All he needed right now was for his landlord to find out and kick him out. This was the only place cheap enough that he could rent.

The puppy just about blurred with how fast he was running, zooming here and there in the small apartment, sniffing everywhere.

Jonathan, the pet shop owner, had said that the puppy was toilet-trained enough to not suddenly start peeing everywhere, but it was up to Tom to teach him to go outside. That was another thing he had to worry about. 

Maybe he could charm a cat litter box to empty itself out? Or something?

He sighed as he rolled up his sleeves and got two bowls out of the cupboard, filling one up with water and the other with puppy kibble. He placed both beside the bedroom doorway and whistled. The puppy (Tom really needed to give him a name) whizzed from the bathroom and ran into his legs, falling back a bit with a whimper 

Tom smiled, sighing with exasperation.

He pointed to the bowls, and then pointed to the puppy. Then, he picked up his messenger bag and placed it on the kitchen bench.

He made himself something to eat, watching the puppy silently as it ran in circles and jumped and fell over, tiring himself out so much he laid over panting for a solid five minutes.

After Tom washed the dishes, he grabbed some pajamas from his bedroom and had a shower, thinking of how he now had to look after an animal. He brushed his teeth and spat it down the drain, water running down his face and body. 

When he got out, he could still here the sounds of the puppy running about just outside the closed door. He dried himself and got changed, putting his dirty clothes and towel in the hamper beside the closed door.

Hesitating before opening it, Tom reached over to the basin, pulling another towel from underneath. 

When he walked out, the puppy looked up at him surprisingly, face resting in his kibble. He must've not noticed Tom had left to shower. 

Tom laid the towel beside the bowls, patted the dog twice on his soft and tiny head, and walked into his bedroom.

He closes the door behind him and went to lay in bed, feeling nice and soft and maybe, maybe he should have a cigarette. He doesn't, and he couldn't sleep so he turns over to lay on his stomach.

And he still couldn't sleep because he could hear the sound of the puppy crying and whimpering on the other side of the door, so he casts a spell and everything goes silent around him. 

That night, he dreamt of a puppy running around, happy and carefree and smart on its little, multicolored paws.


	3. twelve fifty-six am

Bellatrix Black stares up at Lord Voldemort, face flushed as he looks down at her. She feels as if her breath is stuck in her throat.

Sure, she adored him. But Merlin, he was terrifying.

"M-my lord?" His lips pursed tightly together, his waxy complexion shining ghastly in the green candle light. He then abruptly stands back and turnd around, bending over his desk to look for something. 

She finally felt like she could function again, forcing herself to breath deep and even breathes of damp air. They were currently in the basement of one of the Death Eaters houses, Lord Voldemort having stayed there for what seemed to be little over a month. 

Bellatrix looked around the dark walls of the room Lord Voldemort was staying in, she found it anything but charming.

She supposed it fit the lord, in a way.

He seemed to find what he was looking for, a small gasp escaping his lips as he lifted it up to his face. He slowly turned around, in his hands was a pocket watch. Bellatrix stared at it, confused. This was what she was summoned for? Was it a gift?

"You're one of my most trusted Death Eaters, Bellatrix. Always so loyal." He moves his gaze from his hands, Bellatrix notices before she looks away and meets Lord Voldemort's gaze, that they were shaking. 

Something between terror and anticipation thumped alongside her heart in her chest, electricity buzzing underneath her skin.

"I know you're set to marry Rodolphus in the coming months, but I have an important mission for you." He didnt say anything else, just slowly handed her the pocket watch as if it were something precious. She treated it as such. When it was finally in her hands, she was surprised by its warmth. It almost made her want to put it down, but she didn't. This felt like a test, the lord's eyes on her, feeling heavy.

She stared down at the pocket watch, and waited for him to explain what to do. Nothing. She looked at him, eyebrows tentatively raised, he stared back at her. Nothing. Unease began to crawl up her spine.

Bellatrix looked back down at the pocket watch, rubbing her thumb over the intricate designs carved into the cover that hid the face. 

There was a little button on the side, when pushed would show the time. She placed her thumb carefully over the button, looking back up at the lord to see if she had it right. He stared down at Bellatrix, watery eyes looking into her soul. A sharp smile that couldn't meet his eyes curved his lips into something ugly.

"Good job, Bella." She smiled, feeling like a little girl who just got her head patted for getting the question right.

She stood up straighter in her robes, looking down with a satisfied grin curling onto her face. Bellatrix pressed her thumb down hard, and as the cover flung open, and bright green light blinded her, she almost wished she hadn't.

Wrong, Bellatrix definitely wished she hadn't.

-

She was shaking.

Something was filling her mouth, and it took her a couple minutes to realise it was a mix of blood and saliva. 

Bellatrix sat up blinking as she heaved and gasped and choked. She looked around herself repeatedly, brain not registering for a second. 

Where was she?

Bellatrix tried to stand up, and fell back in the snow that surronded her. 

It was cold, but something in her hand was warm. She brought it up to her face, arm shaking with the weight even though it wasn't heavy. The pocket watch. Bellatrix was still holding onto that damned pocket watch. She wordlessly yelled and threw it away from her, suddenly angry. Dangerously angry. Giving up, she flopped backwards to lay in the snow.

Was this a trap? Was this a test? 

She stared at the clouds painted low in the sky above her, dark and moody. 

It seemed to be winter, though it was still spring when she had left the Black estate to visit Lord Voldemort. 

Her hair had come out of its loose braid, and was now in her face. She blew it away angrily as the curls began to annoy her by tickling her skin. She felt the snow began to melt through her robes and her hair. Bellatrix best get up and collect that pocket watch, before Lord Voldemort comes down on her and kills her.

She gets up, so tired, and looks around in the blinding white snow. Bellatrix tried to swallow her rising anxiety as she realises she can't see it. Oh Merlin, Lord Voldemort was going to haver her flayed alive.

She frantically began to look around, trying to desperately remember which way she threw it. Was it here? Was it here? Oh, fuck.

As she was digging around on her hands and knees, fingers trembling and numb, Bellatrix heard a cough behind her. Startling, she whipped around and fell on her arse, her wand automatically dropping from her sleeve as she tensed and sneered.

A few feet away from her stood a young man around her age, bound in warm Muggle clothing, a hat covering his head. In one arm was a sleeping puppy (well, maybe just a bit bigger then a puppy), and in his outstretched hand was her pocket watch. She looked at him, trembling with either rage or the cold.

He raised an eyebrow, eyes slightly widened as he took in her robe and wand.

"This yours?" Bellatrix used the last of her energy to get up and run forward, stumbling a bit on numb legs as she grabbed at the watch. She fell just before him as he snatched his hand back. He tutted at her, turning around as he hiked the pup higher in his arm, studying the pocket watch as if it were his.

"Manners can get you far, miss. And I won't ask you what you are doing with such... dark magic." He turned it over in his hand, but thought better then to open it. She was grateful.

"Mister, may I please have my pocketwatch back?" She asked sweetly, voice shaking while she pushed her wand back up her sleeve. 

Bellatrix guessed he was a strong wizard, if he wasn't even bothered with drawing his own wand, and going even further to turn his back to her. A strong wizard, or perhaps a foolish one. He stood there for a few more minutes while the snow soaked further through her robes and then her pants. It... wasn't that cold anymore. Huh.

He turned back around, reaching down to hand it to her before he suddenly thought better of it, pocketting the watch and reaching out to grab her hand instead. Bellatrix was starting to get dizzy.

"How about you come with me, to my home. If you stay out any longer you'll freeze and die." As she let herself be pulled up by him, Bellatrix wondered if he would care if she did die. By the sounds of it, he wouldn't.

-

It was a ten minute walk, but the wind and the chill made it feel like half an hour. 

Bellatrix hadn't tried to take back the pocket watch, too dizzy and tired to probably do any good. A little voice inside her said that he might just kill her, if she annoyed him even just a little bit. He had wandlessly casted a warming charm on her, but it was still cold. She supposes it was because he was so warm, that all of his energy went on both himself and the puppy.

He dragged her along each time she stopped walking, a hand around her boney wrist as he trudged forward through the snow. Bellatrix looked at what little of the pup she could still see, thinking it cute, though it looked like a mutt. It must have been cute and sweet enough, to warm this frozen man's heart. When they finally got to an apartment complex (a Muggle one at that, Bellatrix would have scoffed if she hadn't been so tired) when he changed course and pulled her behind a wall.

She watched him as he pulled out a wand from his pocket, muttering quickly and quietly as he stared at her. 

When Bellatrix looked down, she was completely dry and wearing what appeared to be Muggle clothing. She felt her still trembling lip curl back in a sneer. She looked back up when she felt warm but sharp fingers latch back around her wrist, meeting warm (only in colour) eyes.

"Come along, before my neighbours see and make a fuss." When Bellatrix looked down from the man, the puppy had been tucked into his coat. She could hear little snuffling noses, but other then that, it had completely disappeared. 

It was winter, yet the inside of the man's apartment was warm. Even Bellatrix could feel the difference, she thought it felt like summer.

Bellatrix stared after the man as she closed the door behind her, watching him place the little puppy down by his feet. She watched him as he watched the little pup waddle away tiredly, making a beeline to an out of place tree stump that had a hole carved in the middle. It took a few tries, but it finally managed to crawl up inside, tiredly yawning as it flopped down on a large worn pillow.

The tree stump appeared to be an old transfigured shoe.

When the puppy was back to being fast asleep, the man turned around, almost seeming shocked to see Bellatrix still standing there. Instead of saying anything, he yawned and turned away, walking to a closed door, taking off his coat and throwing it onto the worn couch infront of a kitchen bench. 

She waited a few minutes after he left the room, and after Bellatrix made sure she couldn't hear any sound coming from the closed door, she darted to the coach. Nimble on silent feet, she dug through the pockets and finally found the pocket watch, clasped between her shaking hands as she stared down at it with a mix of glee and hate.

Bellatrix fell asleep like that.

-

"You could have at least taken off your shoes, before deciding to die on my couch." Bellatrix startled, quickly sitting up from where she was laying on the worn purple fabric. Leaning on the edge of the table in front of her, the man was fumbling with some Muggle looking contraption. Twisting little knobs and pulling at an antenna. 

She watched as he sighed and turned it off, placing it beside him before he turned to look at her.

He arched an eyebrow.

"You're lucky. If I hadn't seen you in that snow, you probably would have died and not been found till next week." A small yap from behind the couch made her flinch, though when she realised it was the puppy from earlier, she felt her heart slow slightly.

"I also gave you some leftover potions, since you very well nearly did die on my couch. Now, tell me about this." In his hand, was the pocket watch. 

Bellatrix suddenly looked down at her own hands, suprised to find them empty even though she had just seen him with it. He was a stranger, he could still very well kill her after he found out what he wanted to about it. 

Bellatrix thought on what to say, chewing on her chapped lip as she eyed him.

He looked boredly at her, slouching lightly as he dropped his hand into his lap. He laugh humorously, looking down at it with his curling brown hair fluffed up everywhere. She supposes he would have been handsome, if she wasn't afraid that he would throttle her.

"It's... It's my husband's pocket watch. You see, he works with curses and hexes. I wouldn't open it, if I were you." She turned to face him properly, back straight as she tried not to fidget in her unfamiliar clothes. When a curl blocked her view, she realised her hair must be almost wild with how wet it was earlier. Bellatrix forces down the slight embarrassment.

"Oh, a husband?" He turns to grin mischievously at her, an almost knowing glint in his eye. Bellatrix stares back unflinchingly, in control over every single muscle of her face. 

It was nearly true, anyway. Though the lack of a ring on her finger probably wouldn't have helped.

"Yes." He sniffs and holds out the pocketwatch, nose slightly upturned as he hands it to her. When she finally has it in her grasp, she quickly shoves it in a pocket in her pants. A bit of a tight fit. So tight she realises she can't feel her wand.

Oh, Merlin!

Before she can even start to fully worry and begin stripping to see if it somehow was hiding on her being, the man in front of her abruptly stood up and walked away. If she hadn't been watching him, it would have hit her in the face. But because she had been, Bellatrix caught the wand thrown her way, a smile gracing her lips when she realised it was hers.

"My name is Tom, and the dog is Edmon. Please don't kill him while I make us dinner." Dog in question, Edmon, comes walking up to her with big, green eyes. As Bellatrix reaches down with the hand that's not holding her wand to scratch him between his floppy ears, a small amount of warmth fills her chest.

No, Bellatrix thinks, she won't.


	4. seven fifteen pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning. Uhh, blood? I guess? And maybe some like really not happy times. Depersonalisation? 
> 
> Guys I'm really sorry, if you find something triggering, make sure to let me know, since I'm not too sure. Sorry again 😔
> 
> (Also the editing may be off on this one, ive only read it through twice, and only once with like the last 500 words. Anyway, enjoy 😛)

Hermione Granger was sat in some Muggle bar, its beer nuts cheap, its alcohol even cheaper. 

Cheap doesn't mean good, though. She pushes her hair back from her face, slouching as she flicks through the book in front of her. What should she make for dinner tonight? They didn't have a lot of meat, so she had to make it last.

"Oh, for Mer-" Hermione pointedly raised her eyebrows, eyes still on glossy pictures in front of her, resting on a wooden table carved with names. "Er, for heaven's sake... 'Mione, put the book down and come talk to me. 'M gonna fall asleep." Hermione looks up, wrinkling her nose. Harry Potter stood before her, glasses pushed up into his hair as he rubs at his face. He didn't get much sleep, and tonight would be slow.

Hermione picks up her cookbook and bag, walking over to sit at the bar. There was hardly anyone in tonight, though she supposes it is Monday. She goes to place her book on the bar, but thinks better of it and puts it away.

But she would have another look later. Hermione was always leaving the job of cooking meals to Harry, and it made her feel lazy.

Behind her, she could hear him picking up ashtrays and emptying them out into the bins underneath the tables, giving them a wipe to get rid of the leftover ash. Then she watches him in the mirror on the wall as he walks around and picks up all the empty glasses. It's so routine that even Hermione could do it, now.

When he finally makes it back to stand behind the bar, rag in hand and cleaning cups out, she starts to talk.

"Harry, I've been here nearly three years now. I know that might not seem like a long time, but I'm literally almost four years older then you." He looks away from her, frown lines deep. It was the truth, though it probably hurt for him to hear it. Sbe knows, for him, he was still in the 1990's five months ago. For her though, it had been so long that she could hardly remember what it felt like. While Harry sometimes had troubles dressing and acting properly, Hermione had been here so long it was almost a part of her now.

"I still don't get why that sewing machine sent you so far back, though. You left after me," he mumbles, as he lent down to place the clean glass back underneath the bar. He turns to grab another one, Hermione silently watchs him as he swishes it around in the little bucket of soapy water sat beside him on the bar, drying it with the same rag.

"Argh, disgusting. Anyway, I don't know why it did, but I'm glad. I'm sure the professor wouldn't have known what to do, if I hadn't happened first." Hermione took her hair out of its bun, running her fingers though it to detangle the knots and curls. She sighed in relief, pushing away from her face

"And I still can't believe you told him he died, Harry. Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't tell him about You-Know-Who." Harry has the common decency to blush, looking down as he cleans and dries the next glass, long hair in his face and covering his glasses. Hermione was sort of pushing it, she knew. But still, one of the first rules of time travelling, was to not let anyone know what happened in the future. 

Especially to them.

Just then, a customer came in. It must have been almost seven thirty now, Hermione thought. Still a long enough shift that even she felt tired, and Hermione didn't even have to do anything until tomorrow. Harry worked at the bar from six pm to twelve am, and Hermione worked at the hospital (a nurse, a job she's had since a month after she first arrived in the 1940's) from six am to four in the afternoon. It was a good job, though it sometimes left her so tired she couldn't come and keep Harry company. 

It was okay though, because he understood. Harry always did.

-

That night they just ended up having meatloaf that Harry had cooked while Hermione had been at the hospital.

He never said anything, but Hermione knew that he felt bad when she came home, some days with blood in her hair, or when she had scratches down her arms. 

Or when she looked so dead-eyed that she even scared herself, when she bothered to look in the mirror. 

She didn't hate working at the hospital, though. Hermione loved helping people, and if she could, with her modern knowledge... Well, then, she would. Even if sometimes the long shifts seemed to drown her in... White noise. She just seemed so empty, sometimes. Like... Like...

Static. 

"-mione? Hermione?" She gasps, looking down at her bare feet that suddenly hurt. Harry picks her up and places her on the kitchen bench, eyes wide and skin pale as he crouches in front of her feet. Hermione doesn't really understand what's happening at first, but when Harry removes something from the bottom of her foot, and she hisses, her brain kicks in. Glass, he's holding bloody glass between his fingers. She looks past him and to where she had just been standing.

Her broken cup and plate, left over water and meatloaf in a puddle, blood mixing in with it to make something that was almost gag-worthy.

(Someone in the modern day would probably have considered it abstract, art. Gound breaking. Ha ha.)

When Harry pulls out another piece, she flinches and looks down, from behind a curtain of her short hair. It was frizzy because of the heating charm they constantly had casted on the apartment, since it didn't have a heater. She used to hate her hair, always so wild and ugly when she had just wanted to fit in. She doesn't really care, not anymore.

It was just below her shoulders, now.

Harry doesn't say anything as he cleans her up, wandlessly levitating all the glass he managed to get out of her feet away to the little bin next to the door, summoning the disinfectant and gauze they had in their bathroom. He could be impressive, when he wanted to be.

Hermione felt foolish, now. Letting herself get away, and in front of Harry, too.

Hermione knows he feels bad. Hates that he does. This has nothing at all to do with him, and if anything, he helps.

"I'll, I'll make sure to ask one of the other nurses to check it out tomorrow. Oh Harry, I'm sorry." Even though it's her kitchen, her broken glass, her apartment. She doesn't know what she's apologising for-

(except she does, because she had promised herself she wouldn't do this anymore. Wouldn't do this in front of him, he didn't deserve to be witness to her mental breakdowns)

"I was checking out your book while you were dozing off at the bar." He says it nonchalantly, but Hermione can still hear a tremor in his voice, he doesn't meet her eyes when he finally stands up. Instead of letting her get down by herself, he wraps her up carefully into his arms, carrying her to the couch that he had transfigured into a bed. 

It wasn't the best, but Harry had never excelled at that subject, anyway.

"I'm thinking, while you're at work tomorrow, I'll make us something nice to eat. That isn't meatloaf." Hermione doesn't say anything as he sets her down, not even about the fact that she hasn't washed her face or brushed her teeth yet. Harry takes off his glasses, and squints down at her. She smiles.

He turns off the light with a silent nox, and crawls in beside her. Underneath the blankets, she pulls him in close as a wordless apology.

Hermione pretends to be asleep later, with salty tears choking her, Harry silently sobbing into her chest.

-

Hermione isn't back to her usual self the next day. She can tell. The other nurses can tell. When her shift finally ends, she makes the walk home by herself. It's half an hour, but she won't risk apparating while cold with her sore feet. 

A nurse did end up taking a look at them, after having noticed Hermione limping by the time lunch had came around. But Hermione knows there wasn't much else to do besides stitch up the big cuts, and to keep it clean. 

Hermione had felt bad at wasting the nurses time. She had woken early this morning, maybe around four or five, and had stitched up all the ones she had deemed necessary herself. 

By the look on Helen's face, she pitied her. Hermione didn't know why (liar), but maybe the cuts were just in an awfully inconvenient spot (really?). By pure willpower alone, Hermione had managed to ignore most of the pain throughout the whole day. Now, though, with soft and bitingly cold snow coming down around her, she could feel every inch of it.

Hermione tried to destracf herself.

With the beauty of it all, Hermione could almost forget it was the 1940's. It might just be a cold winter day, where she's taking a walk through a Muggle park before going to see Ron and George at the joke shop, to see this week's newest installments, after closing hours.

Merlin, she misses Ron.

When Hermione finally makes it to the apartment (above a small family run bakery), she almost sighs in relief. Rent here is cheap, but maybe that was because most people would be annoyed at being awoken at four in the morning. Hermione doesn't mind the baker and his three sons, as they begin their day.

(Harry, of course, sleeps through it. Hermione uses it as an alarm clock)

They live, along with the baker's wife, behind the shop. The house is much bigger then Hermione and Harry's apartment. They don't mind.

Hermione climbs the stairs with a wince, clothes soaking wet with the snow as the heat of the apartment welcomes her. She would have to remember to reinforce it, after they left for the bar. A couple times they had forgotten, and had been welcomed to nothing but the dark cold.

She knocks on the door, only having to wait a minute until Harry opens it.

He welcomes her with a tired smile, reaching down to give her a kiss on the cheek, taking her nurse bag from her trembling fingers. She smiles up at him as she follows behind, closing the front door as she carefully toes of her shoes. 

"That smells wonderful, Harry. What is it?" He gives Hermione a mischievous grin, pushing his glasses up to rest in his hair to wipe sweat from his eyes. The apartment is small, only a single room (plus a small bathroom), really. 

"You'll have to wait and see."

And so she does. It gets warm quickly, and her hat and overcoat are still damp. So she pulls off the layers of clothing that she had swaddled up in, after she had changed from her nurse uniform. 

Feeling free, she stands in her knee-length undershirt. They had been awkward, at first. Now Harry doesn't even bat an eye if Hermione forgets a towel to the bathroom. 

She brushes her hair out with her fingers, and walks over to where Harry had sat her nurse bag.

A little while later found Hermione sat on the couch with her feet resting on a soft cushion, bandages finally changed after a long day running around. A little radio that they had saved up money for was sat in the kitchen (two benches, one cardboard, a fridge, an oven, one sink. Cold water, only) with Harry (as he continues to finish preparing whatever he had managed to find in Hermione's cookbook), jazz with an undertone of static filling the void. 

Hermione felt content.

She had just started to doze off, head lolled back against the springy foam of the head rest, when Harry suddenly appeared before her with a- 

"Ta-da!"

Hermione suddenly sat forward looking every-which-way, blinking the sleep from her eyes and licking her cracked lips. In front of her Harry looked a little sheepish, a bowl and plate in hand, cutlery and cup of water levitating behind him.

Hermione sighed, leaning back with a tired smile as she took in her best friend. 

Hair everywhere (like always), glasses skewered (he really needed a new pair), clothes a mess (on him, the outfit looks like a costume). He was shuffling from one foot to the next before blowing her an anxious raspberry (he always hated cooking food for other people, he had told Hermione one day, because he felt like it wouldn't be good enough and they would hate him for it) and turning to set the food down on the little table beside her. 

"Oh Harry, thank you." At first she wasn't sure what it was, but after a while she recognised it, without the glossy paper and expensive-looking presentation. Potato soup with a side of parsnip, pecan and pear salad. It looked lovely.

Hermione waited for Harry to bring over his food and drink, watching him as he also brought over the little cheap radio. He sat down beside Hermione on the couch, placing his food on the twin table next to him, setting the radio to rest between their feet. 

Then, they ate.

It's delicious, Hermione admits a bit later to Harry, enjoying the way his eyes light up in the dark apartment. 

He asks about her work that day, and she tells him about all the bits she enjoyed. Hermione was never one for gossip back at Hogwarts, but since she started working at the hospital, her and a small selection of other nurses sometimes talk during their shared lunch breakes.

Hermione tells Harry about this doctor who may or may not be the father of a wealthy woman's child. He gasps, scandalised. She then tells him about a new nurse who just go busted stealing drugs for her father, he tutts and shakes his head with a mouthful of soup. They go on like this for parhaps half an hour, talking back and forth about other people's lives.

When the conversation begins to lull, and both are sitting back with a belly full of food, Harry tells her about some things that he hears sometimes at the bar. Of course since she usually goes along with him, Hermione already knows most of the best scandals and secrets, but sometimes she misses them when she goes to the toilet, or when she stays home.

"Yes, yes I know! They had just caught her too! She had been taking home men my age, and sometimes even younger! The police only found out because her mailman complained to them about a foul odour coming from her backyard." And that's how Hermione finds out that Harry had been serving a mass murder who was old enough to be in a nursing home. 

It's not every day that you come across a killer.

And when it's time to leave, half an hour to six, Hermione goes to stand up before Harry tells her to stop. She sighs (in defeat) before relaxing back into the couch, watching him with tired and sad eyes as he picks up all the dishes and takes them to the sink, already filled with warm soapy water. 

They don't have any windows in the apartment, so Hermione can't tell if it's snowing or not. She hopes it isn't.

"Now, I baked some cookies earlier, though they're not the best. Also there's still some meatloaf in the freezer if you get hungry while im gone. I'll be back soon, 'Mione. Maybe have a nap, okay?" She nods, brushing her hair out of her face so he can reach down and kiss her forhead. He sighs while looking down on her, head tilted to the right as he studies her face. He goes to say something, but thinks better of it. Hermione smiles.

"Well, I'll be off, then." They wave at each other, then he's gone out the door. Hermione lets herself fall sideways on the cramped, musty little couch. She lets herself fall asleep.

-

Hermione wakes up five hours later.

It's just after eleven, so Harry should be home soon. She gets up and stretches, ignoring the pain that shoots up from her feet. Hermione's immune system is plenty strong, she should be fine. 

(Okay, so maybe she's a little bit scared of infection. It is 1946, after all.)

She limps over to the fridge, shivering in the little apartment surrounded in darkness. A candle is burning low, on the kitchen counter.

It's always cold, when they don't recast the heating charms. It's a pain, honestly. Hermione looks through the small fridge, frowning at how little food they have. They get paid well enough from their jobs, but most of it goes to the baker and his sons for rent. At least they give Harry and Hermione any leftover bread, if they themselves don't eat it.

She sees the large glass plate, reaching in to grab it. It take a good amount of energy, foil crinkling as she pulls it out with both hands. 

The radio was still on, though now was just the news. She switches it off after setting the plate down, thinking for a minute on what to do next, head still a little dizzy from just waking up.

Right! The cold.

She mentally pats herself on the back, walking over to where a small cuckoo clock on the wall near the front door. Hermione flips it over and pulls at its back, grabbing her wand from its resting place, a shruken trunk stashed beside it. She replaces the back and turns around, transfiguring the couch into a proper bed. 

It's in bad taste, but she realises its just like the one she had had back in Hogwarts. Merlin, the last time she slept in it was sixth year. How long ago was that?

Before she forgot, she also recasted the heating charm. Last thing she needs was to get sick. Especially as a nurse.

Sometimes, Hermione didn't really need to use any magic for days and days on end (since it was usually left up to Harry. He really needed the practice), so she likes to use up a little bit of excess energy by transfiguing things (and occasionally casting heating charms, though she usually left that up to Harry, as well). Take the clock, for example. That used to be a wooden bowl that had a crack in the side. She was proud of that one, the designs carved into the wood were stunning.

Hermione turned to the bed, stretching as she thought of how to spend her time before Harry came home. She decided that reading a book would keep her awake.

But it seems the moment she crawls underneath the warm and thick blankets with a biscuit (wow, Harry was right. Not exactly the best) and a borrowed book, she falls fast asleep, the tip of her wand falling dim as she drifts off.

But not for long, it seems.

"Fuck! Merlin's moldy balls! Hermione get up! Get! Up!" She jumps up, wand suddenly in hand as she scans the dark room. Hermione's eyes falls on Harry, who's leaning up against the side of one of the bed columns, squinting as he holds his head in pain. 

Breathing a shuddering breath into her quivering lungs, Hermione swallows a possibly devastating curse (alongside some vomit that had crawled its way up her throat, acid burning), doing breathing exercises as she reminds herself where she is. 

She's okay. She's here. It's 1946. Harry's here. They're both fine.

The side of the bed sinks slightly, Hermione opens her eyes once she has calmed herself enough to instead cast a harmless lumos, looking into Harry's glazed and wild eyes. She sits back down, nose wrinkling as she shuffles out of the way of the remains of a biscuit.

"Dumbledore. He came to the bar, we talked- Oh my fucking god, Hermione! Riddle, he's planning something!" Harry's wild with it, buzzing, sitting up on his knees and hands waving around like he's explaining something exciting. Just like back then, when he was talking about what Malfoy or Voldemort was up to. This wasn't a game, and Harry didnt treat it as such. But Hermione couldn't deny Harry was, right now, in his element.

A perfect little pawn, a talented little soldier.

She swallows her fear, asks him to explain. Because he hadn't, and she's confused, and scared, and Dumbledore? Showed up at a Muggle bar? What was he thinking? Harry sits back a little, eyes seeming to clear behind his crooked glasses. He bites his lip.

"Sorry, just... Well, Dumbledore's got a rat, okay? And the rat just sent him an owl saying that Riddle was going to hold a meeting, with the inner circle of his Death Eaters!" Hermione brings up a palm to her forehead, closing her eyes and cursing under her breath.

Merlin, looks like she might not be able to go into work tomorrow. A relief? Not really, not with the reality she might be facing a more intelligent, more sane Lord Voldemort. She summons a glass of water from the kitchen bench as Harry tells her that they have a meeting with Dumbledore at his office in Hogwarts. Now. She gulps the liquid down to stop herself from vomiting.


End file.
